and search personally. It is really a dreadful misfortune the register being lost, and the clergyman and clerk both dead; but money can do a _great deal_, and you are the last man in the world to spare it. I will write again very shortly, and hope to have good news from you before long. “Your affectionate Cousin, “HELEN MAYHEW.” Helen kept her promise, and during her stay at Monkswood Reginald heard from her regularly; but neither line nor message was ever enclosed from his wife, so neither line nor message was ever sent by him. He did not even mention her name in his letters--letters which Helen could not refuse to Alice’s wistful eyes--letters which Alice read with pale face and trembling lips, and returned without a single observation. Two months later a bad attack of jungle fever procured Sir Reginald leave of absence. For months he had been like a bird beating against the bars of his cage to get away to Cheetapore, as letters, telegrams, and inquiries of all kinds had been utterly useless in throwing any light on the mysterious certificate. But the colonel of the Seventeenth Hussars was rather short of officers, and could not spare his smart young major, who had no claim whatever to leave, having so recently arrived from England; besides, his particular motto was, “No leave,” and as an Irish sub once angrily expressed it, “No leave, and as little of that as possible.” At last Sir Reginald reached Cheetapore, very much knocked up by the long journey, and a mere shadow of the man who had left it two years previously. The Twenty-ninth Dragoons, who had replaced his old regiment, hospitably took him in and “put him up.” For two or three days he was prostrated by a recurrence of the fever, and fit for nothing. The first evening he was able to go out he went and called on the chaplain. He was not at home. Leaving a note to make an appointment, he went on to the band with one of his entertainers. As they drove round the circle, Miss Mason--still Miss Mason--lolling back in her carriage, could scarcely believe her eyes, and Mrs. Chambers, her once firm ally and now implacable enemy, could hardly trust hers either. She said to one of the Twenty-ninth, who lounged up to her barouche: “Who is that in the dog-cart with Captain Fox? He looks frightfully ill.” “Oh, that’s Fairfax of the Seventeenth Hussars. He has come down here on some mysterious errand or other. He would be much better on his way to Europe instead. Looks as if he was going off the hooks, doesn’t he?” “He looks very ill indeed. What on earth brings him here?” “Well, if you won’t repeat it, I’ll tell you,” coming closer and speaking confidentially. “Strictly private, you understand. Mum’s the word.” “Oh, of course!”